


Freedom of the Trapped Soul

by IfMulderCouldSeeMeNow



Category: Hannibal (TV), The X-Files
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Series, Scully is Bedelia, Undercover, Wendigo, and beyond, attack-arc, through season 2
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-29
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-27 08:56:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2686844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IfMulderCouldSeeMeNow/pseuds/IfMulderCouldSeeMeNow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He's after you Scully, I can see it in his eyes," Mulder declared, pacing the expanse of her living room. Mulder tries to convince Scully to leave her undercover assignment as Hannibal Lecter's psychiatrist . WIP</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stipulations

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I do not own The X-Files or Hannibal. This is an intro chapter, and is very short because I wanted to test the fandom waters. Please read and review! :D

 

“He’s after you Scully, I can see it in his eyes,” Mulder declared, pacing the expanse of her living room.

“I’m fine, Mulder.”

“I won’t let Hannibal hurt you again,” he commanded, his hand banging on the dining room table.

“You shouldn’t be here. You know that. Not so soon after he’s left.”

 _“You_ shouldn’t be here. He’s coming back for you, Scully. You need to leave.” She sighs deeply at his words. She knew she should leave.

“I _can’t_ Mulder.”

“Why the hell not?” He storms at her. He’s so angry and she’s happy that the room isn’t bugged. They shouldn’t see him like this, not with everything going on. He grabs her arms and pulls her close but she won’t look at him. Her eyes are downcast. When he finally realizes there’s something she isn’t telling him, that this isn’t about her pride, his eyes soften and his fingers rest under her chin, bringing her head up.

Her eyes are the same eyes he’s loved for nearly 20 years, but everything else is different. The long blonde hair suits her, but it’s so different. This regality in her clothing, her home and her essence are what he couldn’t give her in all of their years together. She fits here. But this investigation, that she’s held onto for nearly two years has damaged her. He will not lose her to work; not again. His eyes search hers for answers and when she looks at him, her eyes glisten with unshed tears.

“You didn’t think your freedom came with stipulations, Mulder?”


	2. Restrictions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I like you, Dr. Du Maurier,” he had said, rising from his high-back chair. He was across the small office in an instant, and she reached to her back for a holster and gun that she no longer possessed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying a new way of transitioning into flashbacks, tell me if it works.
> 
> Thanks for the kudos and reviews on this story, it really makes me happy! Y'all rock!
> 
> Hope you enjoy this installment

“Scully?” his voice is a cracked whisper. He feels like he’s been punched in the stomach then uppercut in the jaw. She can’t look at him any longer. She kept this from him for too long, didn’t want him to blame himself for another thing that went _wrong._ So many things had seemed to go _wrong_ in their lives, it just wasn’t fair. But she can’t protect him any longer- not when she’s afraid to go to sleep at night.

“If I don’t do this, Mulder, the charges return.”

“Scu-”

“I won’t have you on the run again,” she shakes her head, breaking from his grasp. She doesn’t tell him that this isn’t about her, it’s about keeping a watch on him. She doesn’t tell him that they know he won’t do anything while she’s practically a working hostage. She can’t. So she says what she can say. “They’ll kill before you even have a chance this time. _Please,_ ” she intones, finally looking into his eyes again.

Her words are lost to him as he storms from her ‘home.’ “Don’t wait up,” she hears him sneer as the door slams shut. She shouldn’t have kept it from him. How could she? How could she not when she knew he would do anything to _save_ her, even if it meant killing himself to prevent… … _this._ In both paths, she has lost Mulder. At least in this one, he is alive. She collapses into the sofa and holds her head in her hands.

* * *

 

“Dana Scully,” a voice booms from across the hospital wing.

“Yes?” she turns on her heels, red hair spinning behind her. The man meets her halfway and hands her a folder. As her brow knots he only says a few words before walking away.

“I’m confident you’ll make the right decision.”

She was confident that the _real_ FBI had no idea this “undercover” case was going on. Hell, she wasn’t even sure if it was a case or simply a chance to “keep tabs” on her as well. She sighed and figured that they knew about the vaccine she was developing.

Despite her apprehensions on the validity on the claim that she was undercover because of a recent string of murders, Scully knew that there was something amiss in Baltimore-It wasn’t just a murderer. Based on the killings, she knew it would be a difficult task, but that the killer _had_ to boast in some way. He was a narcissist, and although there was a slim possibility of her finding the killer (not that they _actually_ expected her to), it kept her in place and kept Mulder alive.

She didn’t expect to find Hannibal Lecter, or better yet, for Hannibal Lecter to find her.

Scully would laugh at the irony of being back in the FBI after Mulder nearly begged her for years, if it didn’t make her want to cry. “Come back,” he said. “I need you on this case,” he claimed. And this case. And this case. And this case. He needed his skeptic. Men waking up without their limbs in Ohio, Girls and boys vanishing for 5 years from Indiana and returning the same age as when they left.  She wouldn’t budge. She was stone.

She’s sure this isn’t what he imagined, when he whined that he needed her back. Dana Scully, once again FBI puppet. The Dana Scully of 15 years ago would have raged, fought back, beat the system. This Dana Scully was tired, deprived, and had too much at risk to make such silly gambles. The tiny print _“We know where he is”_ at the bottom of the file cemented her participation. Looking back, Scully assumes this recent case; this “capture the Queen” game is the result of the impending _date._ It was ,after all, late 2011. There wasn’t much time left and his recent behavior had rocked the boat.

She told him not to release those files.

Scully would never tell him that he was to blame; he thought enough about that himself. Instead she blames herself, claims that this is punishment, a penance of sorts for depriving him of his son, giving her mother so much stress before she passed, giving up when she was specifically advised not to.

She’s knows that there aren’t microphones in her office, lest they catch the murderer but get caught without a warrant to listen to confidential recordings. Her phone however, she knows is bugged, and her office computer tapped, just in case she thinks they aren’t watching and she tries to order any tickets online. As if the car tailing her to and from her office every morning wasn’t enough indication of that. But her house…now that was a different story. If the Lone Gunman were still around, she sighs deeply at the thought, they would have already hacked the system and had the FBI watching reruns of Friends. But things were different now. They were waiting for the moment she attempted to jump ship. Like she _could._ Her only solace was the home that Mulder visited, never _lived_ in. She personally looked through it once a week for bugs, more-so if Mulder came to visit a particular week. It was her place to lay, to sit and think about her life in as much peace as she was allowed. They would not take it.

She was a prisoner, stripped of everything, even her identity. No longer Dana Scully, she was Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier, colleague and _recently turned_ psychiatrist to Hannibal Lecter.

Her hair rose on the back of her neck and her skin crawled when she first met Dr. Hannibal Lecter, a subtle smile paste across her face. Charming, pleasant, organized- demonic. She could see it in his eyes, so similar to Donny Pfaster’s and yet so different. His eyes were polished, elegant, his veil secured in place. But she could see him. He was a murderer. When he first schedules his appointment, citing that he needs a ‘fellow colleague’ to talk to, she knows:

He knows that she sees him.

The problem with hunting a monster is that you have to look into an abyss to find it. And sometimes, it finds you first.

“I _like_ you, Dr. Du Maurier,” he had said, rising from his high-back chair. He was across the small office in an instant, and she reached to her back for a holster and gun that she no longer possessed. “You have someone you want to _protect_.”  His breath is hot on her face, and she suddenly wishes that the FBI gave a damn to truly bug her office.  Hannibal’s hand is tight around her wrist, twisting it. She grimaces. “It would behoove you to tread lightly.” She is disgusted with herself when she lets out a sigh of relief when he releases her. In his chair was a neatly folded note from her book.

 _“Veil; no regard for human life,”_ it read in her looped, elegant handwriting. That paper was elegantly ripped from locked notebook in her desk- the desk at her _home._ Gooseflesh rose to cover her skin and she shuttered, her hands shaking as she composed herself enough to drive ‘home.’ He was going to kill her.

* * *

 

She sits in her chair at home, her head in her hands. Her palms press into her eye sockets to keep from crying. Mulder wasn’t coming back. She waits until nearly 2 o’clock in the morning, and he still hasn’t returned- the one thing to keep her sane, Gone. Mulder’s words  or warning, or protection, echo in her head. But he isn’t here anymore and it could be too late once he returns.

 She picks up the envelope that arrived with Hannibal’s visit to her residence earlier this evening. She remembers his smile, the way he eyed her and thanked her as if nothing had happened between them. She remembers Mulder shaking in anger, begging her to leave from this investigation, remembers it vividly though the very scene was nearly 14 hours previous.

Her hand holds Hannibal’s referral request, brought to her in the same hands that twisted her wrist nearly a week prior. Jeremy Summers. Hannibal simply cannot handle him as a patient and he believes that psychotherapy from a woman’s perspective for this particular client would be best.

Bedelia, as she is now, knows better than to refuse his request.

She heeds Mulder’s warning. Dr. Hannibal Lecter _was_ after her.

A Cobra is sliding itself around her neck and the only thing she can do is be still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think? Where would you like to see this story go? Leave me a review!


	3. Bindings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the lights go out with a loud surge, she knows that her assumptions are correct.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Hope you enjoy this extra long installment! Happy Holidays and New Year's

Mulder doesn’t return for nearly two weeks, and when he does, it’s simply to grab a case file from her computer. He could have emailed her through a safe server. The fact that he decides to instead knock on the back door and slip inside without a word, silently climbing the stairs to where he knows she keeps her laptop hurts much more than she expected.

“Mulder,” she questions, following him up the stairs. “Mulder, I was worried,” he takes the stairs two at a time and her voice comes out as a huff because she’s trying to at least stay on his heels. “You didn’t call and-

“Seems like the lack of communication is mutual, _Dana.”_ She pauses at the top of the stairs as if she’s been slapped.

“Mulder, I tried to tell you but,” she’s surprised by how quickly he turns around on his heels, his eyes furious. She’d hoped that their weeks apart would help him cool down. Instead, his anger has festered.

“Listen, I get it,” he says with a tone that tells her that he most certainly does _not_ get it. He jams his personal thumb-drive into the port of her Mac and quickly finds his file, downloading it and hastily removing it. If he looked closely around their shared bedroom he would notice that the covers are turned up on his side; that she’d been sleeping there for nearly a week. The ever observant Fox Mulder sees nothing. “This isn’t only about me, Scully; you’ve given up.”

“Mulder,” she nearly screams, the sound surprising herself as well. She clamps her hand over her mouth, and closes her eyes tightly. She feels tears brimming on her lashes, but she will not let them overflow. She _wishes_ she could _give up._ How she desires to just stop. But she can’t. Her life is not in her control. Once upon a time she told Mulder that this was “her life.” She’s not sure this life has _ever_ been hers. Scully takes two deep breathes, knowing that her next words will not be easy, that he may hate her for the rest of his life-not that his seething eyes don’t indicate that already. She can’t keep this from him too. She has to let him know the bigger picture.

“They know where William is, Mulder.”

He brushes past her in a fury, nearly knocking her down with his heavy body. She catches herself on the bedside table, and turns to see that his eyes are on her as well. He hadn’t meant to push her. But his concerned eyes are gone in an instant, replaced with seething anger. She doesn’t follow him as he stomps down the stairs or slams her door so hard she’s sure a picture frame fell after it.

There was no use in following him. He was disgusted with her; she was disgusted with herself. She wasn’t of any use to him anymore- a pawn, just as he had always feared.

Padding the few steps across the carpeted floor, Scully climbs into her bed, pulling her laptop with her. She opens her latest project on stem cell research and types away at the meaningless words of her next journal article. The mind-numbing work will help her forget. But soon she’ll have to leave the prison-like home and see her clients.

Scully visibly shivers, fear creeping up on her like the tide before a tsunami.

She didn’t have the words to tell Mulder that she’s seeing violent tendencies from her referred patient, Jeremy Thomas. That Hannibal Lector sent her an easily-triggered patient to _test_ her. That she’s _terrified_.

He wouldn’t have listened, anyway.

Not that she could blame him.

-

Fox Mulder is furious as he peels away from the resident of _Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier._ Not Dana Scully. The woman inside that house was not the Scully he knew. He feels sick to his stomach, his body alerting him to his blatant lies. The woman in that house, although blonde, was his fiery redhead.

 _“I buried you, Mulder,”_ he hears her words echoed in his head as she sobs, her voice cracking with each syllable.

 _“I gave him up; I gave up our son,”_ he pulls over the car.

“ _You didn’t think your freedom came with stipulations, Mulder?”_

He’s done so much to her, and she’s fought alongside him. He knows he’s truly not made _at_ her, just at what he’s made her become. She’s their pawn, playing into their demands simply for his life, as if his life was worth her own.

But _William’s-_

He can’t think about how he’s treated her, how he’s rejected her for nearly 14 days for keeping a secret when he kept secrets their whole partnership. He knows that it isn’t about _trust,_ but that she _knew_ he would run off immediately, guns ablaze, if he knew from the start. She _knew_ he would be purposely reckless and probably lose his life for her if she’d let him. And that hurts.

Mainly because she was right.

What keeps him from running to fight now is that she’s already in their clutches; he couldn’t risk her life again. He ponders the word and thinks of his years playing video games with the gunman. She was in the “ _clutches_ _of the enemy_ ,” Langley would say, pushing buttons at lightning speed. Frohike would chime in with a comment that would make Mulder slap the remaining hair off his head. “Don’t know why you’re complaining-It would be a pleasure to rescue the _scrumptious_ Agent Scully.”

It’s Byers’ voice that he finally hears, and he isn’t talking about video games or clutches or scrumptiousness. “you were being an ass,” he says, and Mulder swerves, his car nearly falling into a ditch on the side of the road. He turns in the seat to see the eyes of his decade-dead friend fixing his tie as if he had an interview shortly “She wants you alive.”

“Not like us, man” Langley whispers, suddenly appearing in the back seat, shifting the black-framed glasses up his nose.

Frohike appears last and Mulder expects his friend to provide his comic relief. _C’mon, say something about Scully being hot,_ he thinks, _or about how I’m so whipped_. Instead, his oldest friend looks into the mirror, meeting eyes with Mulder, his words solemn. “You know if the roles were reversed, you would have done the same thing for Agent Scully.” He sighs deeply, knowing that they were right. He misses the Gunman holding him accountable, telling him when he was wrong, even when he knew it but refused to accept it.

Before they disappear into oblivion, Byers’ last words are clear: “She’s in danger, Mulder. She needs you.”

She’s already lost her identity. She’s lost her freedom twice for him. He won’t abandon her; he will not make her carry the world on her shoulders alone.

They would get through this; they would find a way out: together

* * *

 

When Mulder returns to the world of the living, he curses loudly noticing the analogue clock. 4 o’clock? He’d been sitting on this road imagining the dead from his sick consciousness for 4 fucking hours? He looks down at his phone he notices that he has 4 missed calls, all from Scully.

The first three come from her personal phone, one that she solely uses to take calls from him. It stays locked in her vanity when she leaves her home to practice. The last is from her office, which surprises him. She shouldn’t be making personal calls on that phone, especially to him.

“Mulder, I know you’re angry, but _please,_ ” she pauses “ _please_ call me. They won’t help me.”

He should call her right now, but the next, newer message begins to play.

“Mulder it’s me. There’s a patient and I need your help.”

A patient? How could he help, he’s never technically _practiced._ His brain puts together the pieces. Profiling. He can’t help but recognize the quiver in her voice when she said the word ‘patient.’ She was _afraid._ Dammit! He knew she needed to tell him something before he stormed off. The phone is pressed to his ear as he speeds down the highway.

“He just left and I’m _scared,_ Mulder,” she’s whispering into the phone. Her voice sounds so little he’s terrified himself. “He’s exhibiting symptoms of-”

The phone line goes dead.

“Fuck,” Mulder shouts, pushing his whole size 13 foot on the gas. He tried to make himself believe that he was simply exaggerating. Scully was a trained federal agent. She could take care of herself. She had cameras monitoring her every move. There was a panic button in her office.

The absolute fear in her voice is what worries him the most. Scully didn’t scare easily and her terror wasn’t to be taken lightly. He feels tears pinprick in his eyes and brushes them away. She needed his help and he’d pushed her away.

 _She’s fine_ was his mantra the whole way to her office. She said it enough that it must _always_ be true, even when it wasn’t. He shouldn’t be driving to her office when she’s fine. He could ruin her whole investigation when she’s fine. Nosey Agents probably followed her home. She was home: fine. He makes a left turn and thinks about doubling back. She was fine, there was no need to get her in trouble. Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine.

His self-assurance is shattered when he sees emergency vehicles lined outside her office building.

Scully calls Mulder’s line twice from her cell phone. She knew he didn’t want to talk to her; knew he didn’t want to hear her voice. But she also knew that Mulder had a threshold for anger and that he would eventually answer. It had been nearly an hour since he left and she was hoping that he’d calmed down. When her first call goes unanswered she sighs and begins to dress for her appointments. Today she only had two, although the second made her blood run cold.

Once she’s finished dressing, she calls him again.

She needed to hear Mulder’s profile of her patient, needed him to tell her that she was _“exaggerating,”_ even though secretly she knew what he would say. She hopes mentioning the patient will make him call her back.

When he doesn’t answer she closes her personal phone and locks it in her bedroom safe. She wishes she could lock herself inside as well

 

* * *

 

“Are you married, Dr. Du Maurier?”

“This session is about you, Jeremy,” she responds coolly.

“Stop deflecting my questions,” he snaps. She doesn’t jump when he bangs his fist on the side-table. When Jeremy looks up he is hoping to see terror register her features, but his eyes harden when she is staring back at him, impassive.

“Why would you like to know if I’m married, Jeremy?” Scully is cautious as she speaks, but her voice is unwavering. She knows that her patient feeds off of the terror of others. His record was extensive, and she immediately thinks back to her work with the FBI. In another life, Mulder would be creating a case around Jeremy Thomas, telling the jury that he should not be kept with the general population.

“Y’know, my wife had this way of spinning things so they always were my fault when she called the police” He says, twirling a coin in his hand. She waits for him to continue, keeping her eyes on him.

“You’re just like her, y’know” he laughs half-heartily, his eyes sinister. Scully swallows the lump in her throat and continues as if his words hadn’t just terrified. “I think that’s why Doctor Lecter referred me to you.”

“Why do you make comparisons between your wife and me, Jeremy?”

“You’re an ice-cold bitch, just like her, Bedelia.”

“Dr. Du Maurier,” she corrects. “I think it would be best for us to end our session for today Jeremy.

“What’re you, gonna report me now to my officer.” She rises from her seat and crosses the room to open the door for him.“Now you’re really like my wife,” he’s laughing as he picks up his jacket and saunters across the room, his heavy steps echoing. When he reaches the door, he looks down at the petite blonde. “Except she’s dead.”  His hazel eyes are menacing and hold hers for seconds that feel like years. He laughs again, before walking through the threshold. When she hears him whisper “but what are differences anyway?” She’s terrified.

* * *

 

Her patient was exhibiting symptoms of an impending break. When she dialed out minutes before calling to alert the authorities, the call was immediately halted by the agents monitoring her line.

“Listen Agent Scully, an abusive husband really is no business of the FBI-“

“You’re not listening. The patient made a threat on my life.  

“The patients you received in this investigation were specifically chosen for their non-violent tendencies.”

“Jeremy Thomas is a referral from-”

The line went dead. She slammed the phone in frustration.

They didn’t care that he was a danger. That he could kill someone. Her heart started to beat faster. Hannibal Lecter wouldn’t lay a hand on her. His patient would kill her. She picked up the receiver, needing to hear a reassuring voice and surprisingly, the call went through to Mulder.

Her hands are shaking _Please pick up. Please, Please, Please,_ the words are like a mantra. Instead, she gets his voicemail

“He just left and I’m _scared,_ Mulder,” Scully whispers into the phone. “He’s exhibiting symptoms of-”

The phone line goes dead. This time there is no dial-tone, only nothingness. Eerie silence.

Scully’s pupils dilate like an animal anticipating combat. Her instincts kick in immediately, and she pushes the thought from her head that it was a _coincidence_. Mulder’s voice echoes in her head: “ _If coincidences are just coincidences, why do they feel so contrived_?” When the lights go out with a loud surge, she knows that her assumptions are right.

Mulder was right.

Scully reaches out blindly for her desk. At one point, she could argue that late night chases with Mulder had given her perfect night vision. But as her hands reach and feel for the desk drawers, Scully is reminded that she is sorely out of practice- or just old. Maybe a mixture of the two?

Her office door was still locked-she had time.

She blinks at the sudden blinding light, and shields her eyes momentarily. She wants to believe that it was just a circuit trip, that the many other offices in downtown Baltimore were simply using too much power. But the feeling in the pit of her stomach won’t abate.

 “Miranda?” she calls to the receptionist, unlocking her office door. She’d forgotten all about her in her fluster, a young girl in her early 20’s working her way through business school. Scully couldn’t leave her outside, she needed to get behind the locked oak door with her.

While the brunette was slightly ditzy at times, she had potential- and she was kind. Seeing Miranda every day, and knowing that she wasn’t part of any hidden agenda behind her smiles, or her Christmas cookies gave Scully comfort. She personally picked Miranda, mulling over names and doing background checks with Mulder. _‘Look here, Scully,’_ Mulder said, bringing up the girl’s facebook page. She really should have updated privacy settings, but there she saw a profile picture of a young woman kissing a cup of Starbucks. As Mulder continued to peruse, they saw pictures of ‘nights out’ mingled with office pictures. ‘Throwback Thursdays’ with landscape quote of the day photos. She was a young woman, simply living her life.  Scully was that woman once upon a time in Medical school. Miranda had grown on her.

As Scully opens her office door fully and steps into her waiting room, prepared to laugh off her terrible fright with Miranda, she instead slides, grabbing the doorjamb for support. The lights flip back on and Scully immediately feels bile rise from her stomach when she looks down to see what she’s slipped on.

She chose Miranda, personally.

The young woman now laid dead on the floor, her eyes staring up at the ceiling; face stuck in terror.

Scully immediately hates herself for turning on her heels and running back into her office. For locking the door. For not checking to see if she had a pulse, though she knew Miranda couldn’t be saved.

Her breath is coming out in short puffs, and she reaches for the phone, hoping it came on with the electricity. She simultaneously pushes the panic button under her desk repeatedly. It had to work. They wouldn’t leave her without a panic button.

He wouldn’t kill her, she’d sacrificed too much, had too much to lose to simply die.

The phone is unresponsive, and although she’s pushed the panic button nearly 10 times, no one has come running. She was just a pawn. Scully pulls the first drawer of her desk open with force, yanking the whole thing off the track and out of the desk. The contents spill haphazardly and she bends, reaching easily through the pens and notebook for the shining keys. She’d have to save herself. She’d already been trapped; she wouldn’t let them have the satisfaction of her death, and subsequently, Mulder’s.

She would kill this man if she had to.

Jamming the key into the locked drawer, she yanks the handle prepared to grab her gun.

_Except it’s not there._

“Hannibal,”she whispers harshly.

Her heart is beating fast as she weighs her options. No one was in her office yet. She could try to leave through her office door. _No!_ Her eyes scanned the room and she briefly thinks about climbing out the window and dropping down two stories. _With your luck you’d break your neck._ Her final option is to find a weapon and wait. Just as she reaches down to grab the letter opener, lying on the floor from the violent pull of the drawer moments earlier; the office door is abruptly kicked in.

“Oh my God,” she shouts as the man smiles, stomping into her office, his body covered in Miranda’s blood.

“So I started thinking,” the man proclaims. “When my wife died I was angry,” her eyes are locked on his, as she stands rigid behind her desk. It is the only barrier she has, and Scully knows all too well that it won’t last long. “You see, when she was hit by a drunk driver one year ago, I didn’t get closure.” From the unexpected silence in the room, she realizes that he wants, _expects_ her to respond.

“You are still able to receive closure, Jeremy,” her voice shakes momentarily.

“You’re right,” he smiles and closes the distance between them. She takes a step back, and gasps as he jumps her desk, plunging the letter opener into what should be his heart. His last minute movement lands the opener into his bicep and he howls in pain, looking down at his bleeding arm. Scully takes the opportunity to run, getting just to the door when his fist clenches around her hair and yanks. She screams as he rips out strands and hurls her across the room like a ragdoll. Scully falls face-first into the glass table, and it shatters, her head smashing on the floor.

Scully moans in pain, as she attempts to get to her hands and knees. Her vision is spotted with black dots and her hands sink into shards of glass. When her left eye clouds with red, she reaches her hand up and presses it to her head. _Head wounds bleed a lot, Dana. You’ll be fine._ She hears a deep laugh as she wobbles to her feet, and doesn’t have time to register anything else, before she starts coughing. Her brows quirk in confusion when her right hand returns bloodied from her coughs, and she looks down. Scully’s eyes widen and she stumbles toward her desk.

“Got yourself into quite the predicament, Bedelia,” he deadpans, taking slow steps across the room. It’s a game for him, hunting prey that can no longer escape. Her hands press as tightly as they can, hoping to slow the bleeding of the wound, a large glass shard now embedded into her stomach.  

“I-I” she stumbles, as blood pools around her lips. _Haematemesis._ She staggers, still attempting to get away from him when his hands wrap around her neck.

“When Jessica died, I was most angry because I didn’t get to kill her,” His spit splatters across her face. She feels so cold. Scully feels her blood pulsing in her neck, as he squeezes the life form her. He lifts her small body and she kicks her feet in futile protest, her eyes bulging from her skull as he exerts more pressure on her windpipe. The world is spinning, but she reaches her hands up and grabs for his face, pushing her manicured thumbs into his eye sockets with all the strength she can muster. He screams in agony and releases her.

Her breath comes out in gasps as she tries to get to her feet, holding her stomach as her precious lifeblood seeps. She can faintly still hear his words as her world begins to blacken. _Blood Loss,_ She tells herself. _Or death._  “Fucking bitch!” she hears from behind as her legs give out and she falls to her knees, then to her side. Her hands are still against the pooling blood of her stomach, but she can’t collect any more energy to compress the wound. She’d let him down. She promised to never leave him again.  

“Dr. Du Maurier,” she hears.

“Mul-ler,” she rasps, barely a whisper. Her eyebrows raise, confused as she comes in and out of consciousness. Scully’s eyes hazily open and she sees a large, black figure looming over her with the face of Hannibal Lecter. Large, black antlers sit atop the figures head and its eyes glow red. “Don’t speak, Bedelia. Paramedics are on the way.”

She wants to scream for death to take her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where do you think this story is going? Would you like to see this piece continued? Please leave me a review below!


	4. Irrevocable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red, piercing eyes are staring right at her; Black lips split to form into a menacing smile.

Bits and pieces of conversations enter her mind, but Scully can’t make sense of any of them, only that the black figure was gone. _“Oh my God, it’s a slaughterhouse in there. She’s still alive. She’s lost a lot of blood. Not sure if she’ll make it. Good job holding the wound, sir. Lift. Careful. Injured neck. put her in the board. Need to make an airway.”_

There’s no pain in this blackness, rather a cold numbness. She’s dead. Truly dead. Her hands reach out but there’s no rope to bring her back to shore this time -just blackness.

She blinks her eyes to affirm that they’re open, and next she tries to sit up, finding it easy.

Suddenly she sees a glowing light. She squints, before her eyes widen and she clamps a hand over her mouth to stop herself from screaming. Red, piercing eyes are staring right at her; Black lips split to form into a menacing smile.

* * *

 

Tears gather in Mulder’s eyes and he knows that Scully’s hurt; or dead. He’s out of the car door in an instant, running toward the scene. He doesn’t care about risking their investigation, about everything they could lose. _You could lose her._

He wants to scream her name, but when he sees body bags and gurney being carried up the stairs to the building, he suddenly has a vice grip around his larynx. What if Scully is going into one of those black bags? They’d lay her delicate mangled body down with care, careful to move her blonde hair from her face as they zipp- _No._ She wasn’t dead, she couldn’t be. Mulder rushes toward the strip of officers and onlookers when he sees the gurney being rushed down the marble stairs by EMTs. He barely takes two steps before strong arms push him back.

“You have to get out of here,” his voice is calm, but underneath it lays the seething anger and self-loathing that Mulder has come to know well from Walter Skinner. The anger that he couldn’t stop this ‘undercover’ mission. Just like he ‘let’ Mulder get abducted and charged with murder.

“I-”

“They’re watching, Mulder. It’s not your life that I’m worried about.”

Mulder suddenly looks around and notices the eyes. They would kill her if he interfered.

“Keep your ears open.”

His legs wobble as he steps back from the scene. Hazel eyes water as he sees blonde ringlets muddled and covered in blood, as paramedics swarm around her. He turns before his eidetic memory catches any more. Sitting in his car, he pushes the palms of his hands into his eyes, sucking in a deep breath, then two, and finally a third, before he starts the car and drives.

After 30 minutes he reaches his destination. His keys slide easily into the locks and his fingers work the pad of the updated scanner.

Fox Mulder sits in what used to be the home of The Lone Gunman, and waits for Skinner’s call, waits for Skinner to tell him that Scully was still alive.

* * *

 

“Patient is Bedelia Du Maurier, severe damage to neck, difficulty breathing,” Laura says as she runs along the emergency halls with the staff of Johns Hopkins Hospital. In her 10 years as an EMT, she hasn’t seen any ‘attack’ this bad. At least not on anyone who was still alive. “Blood pressure is quickly dropping, unable to find viable vein.” She continues to pump air into the victim’s lungs, while giving them a quick report on their patient. “Stab wound in abdomen, object still embeded” A nurse takes over, leaving the EMT behind the double doors and Laura stands there, wondering if the woman would make it to the operating table.

* * *

 

Hannibal Lecter slides into Bedelia’s recovery room with ease, stating simply to a nurse that he is her colleague. ‘FBI’ litter the hallway, waiting for the prime moment when their informant wakes from her coma.

It has been four days since the attack. Two hours since she came out of her coma. 1 hour since visitors were allowed into her room and Hannibal Lecter is the first to enter.

Hannibal sits down in a chair next to Bedelia’s bed and gently takes her hand, rubbing his thumb over it.

“Mul-Mulder,” her voice is strained, barely above a whisper.

Her eyes crack open slightly, and she squints at the onslaught of light. “Dr. Du Maurier’s awake and speaking,” Scully hears someone shout.

When her vision focuses she sees Dr. Lecter sitting by her bedside, his face smug. He stands and leans into her bed, his previous words echoing in her head ‘ _You have someone you want to protect.’_  The room suddenly darkens, and she blinks, gasping when it is no longer Hannibal Lecter standing before her, but the black figure, wearing his skin and paisley suit. It looks like the demons she'd imagine from horror stories told after catechism. She can't move, can't scream and her eyes are locked on the demonic figure leaning toward her face, as if to plant the kiss of death on her cheek.  The main voice belongs to Hannibal, but beneath it is a deeper, more sinister echo growling it's words into her soul. 

“Maybe Mulder wasn’t the one who needed protecting, Dr. Scully”

 

* * *

 

“Upon discussion with the board, we are removing Dr. Scully from primary investigation of this case.”

Mulder shifts in his chair, knowing that it wasn’t this easy, that they wouldn’t just let them return to their normal lives.

“However, Dr. Scully’s testimony of her attack, although she refused to directly incriminate Dr. Lecter, seems to pinpoint the need to investigate him further. Her case notes on Dr. Lecter-”

“The evidence you have is all circumstantial and the case notes are not admissible in any court,” Mulder inserts. He shouldn’t need to be briefed on his wife’s attack from someone other than Scully. He shifts in his chair again, huffing out a breath.

“It seems that Dr. Scully has caught Dr. Lecter’s attention-“

“And she nearly died because of it!” Mulder interrupts, his fist banging on the large round table. “What more do you want from her?” His voice nearly breaks. His partner, his wife, has given them everything- she’s paid her two pounds of flesh. The bulky man, Director Cromwell, clears his throat at the sudden outburst and adjusts his glasses.

“Dr. Lecter will be invited as a consultant, in the hopes of incrimination. Upon both parties insistence, Dr. Scully will resume as Dr. Lecter’s psychiatrist in a manner of weeks in a hope to draw him from his,” the man looks down at his notes “’person-suit,’ as she likes to call it. You may resume communication with Dr. Scully once she returns to her home between the hours of-”

The rest of the conversation passes in a blur and when it’s finally over, Mulder storms out of the meeting room. She’s been hospitalized for nearly two weeks, and Hannibal Lecter was on the visitor log.

Just last night, Skinner’s words shook him to the core, the conversation replaying in his mind.

_“There’s something wrong with her, Mulder.” Skinner spoke and he could swear he heard fear in the man’s voice. “When I asked how she was feeling, her only response was ‘Mulder wasn’t the one who needed protecting.’_

He needed to see her.


	5. Develop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is very short, but I needed something small to help me get writing again.

It pains him to no end that he can’t bring her home from the hospital. The taxi finally slides up to the elegant house, and he sees her door open, wanting nothing more than to help her. Instead, Mulder camps himself by her front window, peaks through the curtains, waiting to add another image he will self-loath over later.

She hobbles slowly out of the car, without any assistance from the driver. Mulder’s grip tightens around the drapes. Scully was always a good tipper and yet, the driver couldn’t at least help her from the car? Her long, tan coat in cinched at the waist loosely, and a hand pressed to her stomach as she takes slow, calculated steps, wobbling in her heels. He wants so badly to put his hand on the small of her back, to let her lean on him. But he’s not supposed to be here. It’s daylight and he could blow her cover.

And Hannibal could be watching.  

He doesn’t want to frighten her when she enters the house, so he simply whispers her name when the door closes.

She jumps and whirls, a deep hiss emanating from her body as her hand presses hard against her stomach. He expects to see fear, or compassion, or longing, but instead he sees fiery anger in her eyes.

“You shouldn’t be here!” She shouts, wincing at the pressure the declaration has put on her stomach.

“I needed to make sur-“

“Leave, Mulder.”

“Scul-”

“Leave,” she nearly growls, her voice deep and thunderous.

His brows furrow in deep confusion and fear, but he backs away from her, preparing to exit through the back door. There’s something different about her eyes and he knows Skinner was right. When Mulder reaches the back door, he hears a scratching noise and turns, realizing that Scully’s fingers are leaving marks in the wooden entry table and her hair is no longer blonde, but _black._ He blinks and she’s back to normal, simply with her back turned to him.

“Please Mulder,” she whispers, seemingly back to herself “I need to be alone.”

He shakes the hallucination from his head and grants Scully her wish. Cutting through her enormous backyard seemingly in the middle of nowhere, he finally reaches to small suburban neighborhood where his car is parked. Sliding into the driver’s seat, he pushes his second speed-dial number.

“Skinner, this is Mulder. There’s something she isn’t telling us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the ongoing support for this story!


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